


And Maybe We'll Sleep Tonight

by torakowalski



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:32:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are many interesting things in Q-branch.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Maybe We'll Sleep Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperclipbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/gifts).



> For Jenn who asked for anything as long as it involved Bill Tanner.

Three hours into the fourth meeting of the day, a message pops up on Bill’s laptop screen.

**Message from Q Branch  
Bored**

Bill looks around the room, but the delegates from Portugal and Greece are arguing about something that Bill has lost track of and everyone around the table is paying attention to them not him.

**Is that a statement or a question?** he types back.

**Message from Q Branch**   
**A question. Obviously. I’m never bored.**

****Mallory leans back in his chair next to Bill’s, and sighs. He meets Bill’s eyes and raises one wry eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” Bill agrees quietly. He glances down at the clock in the bottom corner of his screen. They have at least two more hours before they can reasonably break for dinner. “Shall I fake an emergency?”

The right corner of Mallory’s mouth curves up. “Better not. We need to leave something in reserve for if they try to drag this out over Christmas.”

“Good point.” Bill nods and turns back to his laptop, hoping that he’ll look like he’s working while he replies to Q.

**What are you doing?**

This time Q doesn’t answer straight away. If he's found something else to occupy his attention, then Bill knows by now not to expect a reply for a few hours. He’s pleasantly surprised when one comes after two minutes.

**Is that the Bill Tanner version of ‘what are you wearing’?**

Bill manages to turn his snort into a cough before anyone becomes suspicious.

**This is a monitored conversation,** Bill writes back immediately.

Q’s reply bounces back before Bill can even glance around the room and pretend to be paying attention: **Yes, dear. Monitored by me**.

This time, Bill can’t control his smile. Mallory shoots him a curious look, but doesn’t comment. Still, Bill decides that it might be safer to close his laptop until this meeting is over.

***

Mallory insists on taking Bill out for dinner that night. Bill had been planning to catch up on his work emails, and maybe pick up his conversation with Q where it left off, but Mallory is not the sort to take no for an answer.

The restaurant is packed because it’s three days to Christmas, but Mallory only had to open the door for them to be ushered to the best table in the house.

The Secret Service really isn’t as secret as it used to be.

“Are you married, Tanner?” Mallory asks over the fish course. 

“No, sir,” Bill says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. The old M, the woman who Bill privately still thinks of as __his__ M, knew everything there was to know about him before he stepped through her door.

“Shame,” Mallory says thoughtfully. “Jobs like ours can eat you up if you don’t have outside interests.”

Bill clears his throat. “Is this your way of advising me to take up a hobby?” he asks. He’s not sure when Mallory thinks he has time for a hobby. They’re in the Hague right now, and last week they were in New York, and next month they’re due to be in China, unless the balloon goes up in Iran.

Life as Mallory’s Chief of Staff involves a lot of foreign travel and very little sleep.

“Perhaps you should, yes.” Mallory nods. “I enjoy fishing.”

This is a particularly surreal conversation. Bill doesn’t enjoy conversations that he hasn’t predicted and prepared for in advance.

“My grandfather took me fishing once,” Bill offers. “I fell in the river.”

Mallory looks down at his plate. Either to hide a roll of his eyes or a smile, Bill can’t tell.

“What about Q-branch?” Mallory presses. “You spend a lot of time down there, don’t you? Is that something that interests you?”

Bill maintains a very, very good poker face. “There are many interesting things in Q-branch,” he agrees blandly. “I’m sorry, sir, are you looking to reassign me?”

“No, not at all,” Mallory says, reaching for his glass of port. “But we haven’t really had a chance to talk about your development since I took over. You must want more from your career than carrying my umbrella and following me around the globe.”

Bill freezes. He very carefully lays down his fork and reaches for his wine. “Not really, sir,” he says politely. If Mallory really does think that that’s all Bill does, then they have a problem.

“And now I’ve offended you,” Mallory sighs. “Really, Tanner, I’m only trying to – ”

A click of heels interrupts them and then Eve Moneypenny appears at the side of their table. Considering that when Bill last spoke to her, she was still in London, he should probably be more surprised to see her here. However, he’s learnt by now to expect her to appear anywhere at any time.

Usually though, she appears, murmurs something to Mallory, and disappears again. This time, all her attention is on Bill. It makes the hairs on his arms stand up in worry.

“There was an explosion at Q-branch,” she tells him and puts her hand over his before he can jump to his feet. It does nothing for his heart and where that leaps to, however.

“When?” Mallory demands, over the pounding of Bill’s pulse in his ears. “Why wasn’t I informed immediately?”

“It was two hours ago; you were in a meeting,” Eve says over her shoulder. She squeezes Bill’s hand. “He sent me to tell you that no one was seriously hurt.”

Bill turns his hands into claws, blunt nails biting the table so he can keep his outward calm. “ _Seriously_ hurt?” he echoes. There’s something telling there.

Eve looks at him levelly. “A few people have cuts and bruises. Q has a broken wrist.”

It’s strange. Bill works with field agents who regularly go out and get themselves shot, stabbed and half-drowned. He’s blasé enough about it all now that he tends to just rolls his eyes and tell them that they should save their complaining for something that really hurts, like accompanying Mallory to a meeting with the PM or going drinking with Bond.

Which makes it very confusing that Bill feels fleetingly, physically sick at the idea of Q damaged in any way. 

“I’m sure he’s complaining mightily about that,” Bill manages, pleased that his voice comes out level and measured. “Excuse me.” He rises from the table and nods at Mallory. “Sir.”

“Tanner,” Mallory says, just the slightest rising intonation at the end to make it into a question that Bill knows he’s expected to interpret and answer. 

Bill doesn’t. 

He waves Eve into his former seat and hurries out of the restaurant, calling Q’s mobile as he goes. It goes straight to voicemail and he hangs up without leaving a message.

It’s icy cold outside tonight and he left his coat and gloves in the restaurant, he’s still considering heading straight for the airport, when his phone starts to ring in his hand. 

“Sorry,” Q says, voice sounding tight. “It took me a moment to – Eve found you, I assume?”

“She did,” Bill agrees, forcing his feet to keep to a slow and steady pace as he turns back onto the road where his hotel is situated.

“Good, good, it took a ridiculous amount of time to answer my phone one-handed. I really do need to design something to make that easier. Remember that for me, will you?” 

“Why can’t you remember it?” Bill asks, just to have something to say so that he doesn’t immediately start demanding a detailed list of Q's injuries. 

“Hmm? Oh. I’m a little high. They gave me some very strong painkillers. I’m not entirely sure, um.” He trails off. 

Bill has reached his hotel. He nods to the doorman but ignores the front desk. He didn’t hand his key in, which he’s pleased about now, no time wasted making polite conversation that could be spent speaking to Q instead. “Where are you?”

“Oh the, um, the hospital.” Q sounds vague. He never sounds vague; even when he’s in the middle of a coding binge, his answers are always crisp and sharp, albeit distracted and impatient. “St Thomas’, that’s it.”

Bill wishes he were there. He knows Q would hate to have him around, fussing, but he can’t stand the idea of Q being hurt and vulnerable with no one there to take care of him.

The lift ride up to Bill’s floor passes in a blur. He’s aware that he’s become that rude person, talking loudly on his mobile in a confined space, but the opinions of the other occupants of the lift come second to Q right now.

“Why did you send Eve out here?” Bill scolds. “She could at least have driven you home from the hospital.”

Q scoffs. “Please. Have you driven with Eve? Besides, I could walk home from here; you know that.”

“Don’t do that,” Bill says quickly, then winces, expecting a deservedly icy response to trying to tell Q what to do. “I mean, please don’t?”

Q just breathes out softly down the phone, something that’s too muddled to tell if it’s a laugh or a sigh. “I won’t,” he promises. He yawns then swears. “God, I’m so tired.”

Bill has reached the door to the suite he’s sharing with Mallory. He doesn’t go inside, just leans his forehead against the door and breathes. “Get some sleep,” he says. His voice goes soft and coaxing but he refuses to be embarrassed.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Q murmurs, then tries to say something else but it gets lost in a yawn.

“What was that?” Bill asks, but quietly, in case Q is already asleep.

“I said that I wish you were here,” Q says then yawns again. “Ugh, fuck, I’m going to sleep whether I want to or not, apparently. Good night.”

“Good night,” Bill says automatically and then he’s listening to silence.

His hands are embarrassingly unsteady on the keycard. It flashes red twice before deigning to let him inside. 

Inside, he automatically reaches for his laptop, waking it out of sleep mode and going through the motions of connecting to the SIS server. 

There’s an All Department memo on the explosion in the Q-lab. Apparently the whole floor’s been sealed off. Bill wonders what on earth could have exploded. They don’t tend to deal with actual explosives down there anymore, just various ways to protect against them.

There’s also an email from Q, timed at an hour before the explosion: _Bond hanging around again. How much trouble would I be in with M if I bumped him off?_ So maybe that explains that.

Even though he knows that even Q can’t check his emails while knocked out on painkillers, Bill finds himself replying.

_Buy M a nice bottle of scotch and it would probably be forgotten_ , he writes then presses send. He’s aware that it’s ridiculous, but he can’t speak to his actual Q right now, and they communicate electronically about as often as they see each other, so this feels a little like he’s bridging that gap.

After that little display of sentimentality, Bill is appalled enough at himself that he manages to concentrate on replying to genuinely work-related emails for the next fifteen minutes.

Then he becomes too restless to make any sense and opens up the departmental travel site instead.

There’s a flight from Rotterdam The Hague to London City leaving in two hours. Bill refuses to let himself request a ticket, even though every one of the irrational parts of himself that his relationship with Q has woken up are begging him to do so.

Instead, he stands up and putters around the room, wishing that this hotel weren’t quite such high quality. He could do with one of those cheap little plastic hotel kettles to make coffee with, right now.

Bill’s just considering telephoning down to room service to see if they’ll supply him with a kettle – not a pre-made coffee, he needs to be busy, not waited upon – when the door opens and Eve and Mallory walk in.

“Sir,” Bill says awkwardly, wondering what excuse Eve gave for Bill’s sudden disappearance.

“So, there are many interesting things in Q-branch, are there, Tanner?” Mallory asks, dryly.

Bill shoots a look at Eve but she just spreads her hands, smiling easily. “He worked it out,” she says, gracefully shrugging one narrow shoulder.

“Sir, I,” Bill tries again, but Mallory waves him quiet. Bill waits nervously, not entirely sure where this will go. There’s no specific rule against interdepartmental fraternisation – it would be hard for anyone at MI6 to ever have sex, if they couldn’t do it with each other – but Bill’s character reference was asked about his sexuality when he applied for this job. He knows they still worry about the potential for blackmail.

“I’ll need someone to oversee the clean-up of the Q-lab,” Mallory says after a moment. “I’d send Miss Moneypenny, but she’s much better at faking interest in boring diplomatic meetings than you are.”

It feels as though something gnawing and anxious relaxes in Bill’s oesophagus. “I resent that, sir,” he says, trying to contain his relief before it makes his voice uneven, or in any other way unseemly. “I’m excellent at faking interest.”

Mallory shakes his head at him. “Book your flight, Tanner, and don’t argue,” Mallory says firmly then turns to Eve. “Since we’re being so cruelly abandoned, please allow me to take you downstairs and introduce you to a few people. Do you know the UN Secretary-General?”

Bill listens to them flirt and name-drop their way back out of the room, but most of his attention is focused on speed-typing his details into the flight booking form. 

Mallory might not be _his_ M, but he’s certainly not all that bad.

***

Due to the miracles of working for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Bill never has to queue up at immigration anymore. He’s swept past the rows of waiting businessmen and women at London City and into a dark-panelled car, which takes him straight to Q’s flat without even making a pretence at stopping at the SIS Building first.

He takes the frosty steps up to Q’s flat two at a time and lets himself into Q’s flat with the spare key, which Q didn’t exactly give him, but hasn’t objected to him having. (In Bill’s defence, he waited to have it cut until after the third time Q used his lock-picking skills on Bill’s front door.)

“Q?” he calls, then stops dead when he finds James Bond sitting stiffly at Q’s kitchen table.

“He’s taking a bath,” Bond says, looking at Bill levelly. “I’m sure he’d enjoy the company.”

Bill gives Bond a double-take, not sure if he’s being teased or tested. He and Bond have always got on perfectly well, professionally speaking, but Bond and Q have a strangely antagonistic friendship that goes beyond that. 

“Thank you,” Bill says and tries to decide whether to rise to the bait. In the end, the need to see Q wins out over whatever suitability tests Bond is trying to put him through.

He finds Q drowsing in a sea of steaming water and bubble bath; one hand is resting on the side of the bath, long fingers peeking out of the cumbersome-looking plaster cast. The bubbles rise half-way up his chest, but not high enough to hide a truly horrendous collection of bruises that are spreading up the left side of his body. His eyes track Bill sleepily as Bill leaves his shoes in the doorway and crosses over to kneel beside the tub.

“Hello?” Q says curiously, humming against Bill’s mouth when Bill leans in to kiss him. “Are you a pill-induced hallucination?”

Bill pulls up his sleeve and flicks his fingers though Q’s bathwater. “No, but there is a 00 in your kitchen, if you’re looking for something to alarm yourself with.”

Q’s eyes narrow, a frown appearing between them. “Yes, I know. He turned up at the hospital, insisted on driving me home, even though I told him I could walk. And now he won’t leave. We don’t have to keep him, do we?”

“Not unless you fed him,” Bill says, as seriously as he can.

Q laughs quietly. It shouldn’t count, because Q is drugged right now, but Bill still feels slightly smug about that; Q smiles are hard to come by and his laugh is rarer still.

“You’re actually here?” Q asks again. He shifts around slowly, sloshing water from one side of the bath to the other and reaches up to touch Bill’s face. It isn’t something Bill would usually do, but he pretends to nip at Q’s fingers, just to hear his stoned laughter again.

“I swapped myself for Eve,” Bill tells him. “Do you think Mallory will notice?”

Q spends five seconds looking adorably confused before catching on and rolling his eyes. “Stop mocking me,” he complains. “My brain is so…” He tries to wave his broken hand and hisses with pain instead. “My brain’s foggy.”

Bill doesn’t tease him for that – Bill is actually only just learning to tease him at all – because he understands how important Q’s brain is to him. 

“Come on, then,” he says, standing up. “Let’s get you up before you fall asleep and I have to ask Bond to carry you to bed.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Q protests, managing to get to his feet without too much help. 

He’s warm and wet against Bill’s side, but this isn’t the time to enjoy that. Bill props him up against the rail and goes to the airing cupboard for the too-big, blue towelling dressing gown that Q likes to wear around the flat when he’s feeling lazy.

Q is only three years younger than Bill, but he looks like a child wrapped up in his dressing gown and blinking owlishly without his glasses. 

Bill would like to take his arm and lead him to the bedroom, but Q gives him look like he can read Bill’s mind and doesn’t approve of his thoughts. Bill stays behind him instead, hands low and at his sides but ready to come up if Q stumbles or sways.

They get to the bedroom successfully, then Q stands by the bed, glaring down at it and rubbing distractedly at the base of the cast on his wrist.

“I don’t think the bed is a threat,” Bill says lightly, standing next to him.

“I’m tired,” Q tells him crossly. “It’s not even midnight and all I want to do is go to bed.”

Bill swallows down a fond laugh. “You were blown up not very long ago, remember. I think that weakness is allowed, just this once.”

Q sighs but sits down on the bed. He looks up at Bill, eyes wide and darker than normal.

“Fine,” he says, “but don’t expect this to be the start of a new pattern.”

Considering Bill regularly wakes up to find that Q hasn’t come to bed yet, he hadn’t even considered it. “Well, I’m operating on Dutch time, so I’m going to bed,” he says instead, standing up and starting to undress.

Q takes a moment then reaches out and flicks Bill’s stomach. His vest always rides up when he undresses, but Q normally takes advantage of that in a more sexual, less painful way.

“The Netherlands are one hour ahead of us,” Q points out.

“And I’m tired,” Bill agrees. It’s not even much of a lie. He’s always ready for more sleep and the fact that it might make Q sleep too is a definite advantage.

Q keeps grumbling while Bill undresses, even after he’s painfully navigated his way under the duvet and is watching Bill with half-closed eyes.

“Am I allowed to ask about the explosion?” Bill asks, once he’s in bed too, Q’s chest just brushing Bill’s side.

“Absolutely not,” Q says as sharply as he can with his voice slurring. “There was no explosion. Anyone who told you there was an explosion is lying.”

“All right,” Bill agrees easily. He has most of Q’s techs wrapped around his little finger, so he’ll find out about it from one of them tomorrow. If he were a betting man, he’d lay a quite considerable wager on it being the result of Bond and Q’s escalating war with regards to what should and should not come with an exploding option.

Q shifts restlessly, making cut-off little huffs of pain every time he resettles himself. 

“Come here?” Bill asks quietly into the dark. He isn’t sure Q will; Q doesn’t like falling asleep pressed against another person, even if they do often wake up that way.

There’s a pause, but Q must be uncomfortable enough to decide to try it, because he shifts slowly across the bed and settles himself so he’s draped mostly across Bill’s chest. The heavy cast on his wrist bangs painfully into Bill’s hip, but he doesn’t say a word about it.

“There. Better?” Bill says into Q’s hair, feeling a little as though he’s speaking to his baby niece, or one of his cats. Anything, essentially, that might throw a temper tantrum at any minute due to enforced contact.

“Maybe,” Q allows, but the tension’s already leaking out of him.

Bill stays very still, regulating his breathing. He rests his hands in two places on Q’s back but doesn’t let himself stroke Q’s skin for risk of disturbing him.

After enough time has passed that Bill was sure Q was already asleep, Q suddenly shifts and asks, words blowing warm across Bill’s collarbone, “What are your plans for Christmas Day?”

“Marks and Spencers’ turkey sandwich in front of the Doctor Who special,” Bill says automatically. It might sound lonely, but he’s actually been really looking forward to it.

“You won’t be spending it with your sister?” Q asks, nestling closer, seemingly without realising. 

Bill is sure he never mentioned his sister. Q knows everything else about him, though, so why should this be any different? “She’s visiting her in-laws in Australia,” Bill says. 

“Ah,” Q says quietly. “My mother always sends me a Christmas cake that’s so alcoholic you can’t put it near an open flame. It might go well with your turkey sandwich.”

Bill breathes out slowly. “Christmas together?” he asks, trying to sound only vaguely interested. “We could, I suppose, yes. Although, you don’t have a decent coffee maker.” 

Q’s lips brush Bill’s skin, curling up into what Bill thinks must be a sleepy smile. “Bring yours,” he offers. “I cleared a space on the work surface.”

Bill blinks. “You cleared a space?” he repeats. That sounds a little more permanent than just Christmas Day.

“Mm, for when you move in,” Q says, then freezes. “Oh fuck. I wasn’t going to bring it up like that.”

He keeps his head down, face pressed firmly into Bill’s chest. Bill takes comfort in the fact that, even in his injured state, Q would probably have fled the bed, if he really hadn’t meant it.

“You’ll need to make room for my Doctor Who collection, too,” Bill says mildly, finally letting himself lift a hand and card it gently through Q’s damply curling hair.

“I have,” Q admits, then relaxes fully, laughing quietly. “I’m still going to ask you properly. Maybe on Christmas Day.”

“I look forward to it,” Bill says honestly. “I’m sure it won’t be awkward at all.”

“Shut up,” Q grumbles. “I’m going to sleep now.”

“Good,” Bill tells him and tightens his hold on Q, holding him close.

***

In the morning, Q refuses to wake up, no matter how many times Bill clears his throat or pokes him in the unbruised portions of his skinny, bare his chest.

Eventually, Bill gives up and goes to make himself breakfast, rubbing sleep from his eyes and perhaps stumbling slightly into more than one doorframe.

He grinds to a halt, waking up in a rush, when he finds that Bond is still sitting at the kitchen table, looking exactly as Bill left him last night, except for the neat pile of buttered toast and marmalade at his elbow.

“Please tell me you didn’t stay there all night,” Bill says, deciding to ignore the fact that he’s wearing nothing but striped boxers and the grey University of Durham hooded sweatshirt that he keeps in Q’s wardrobe.

“Not at all,” Bond says, nodding to him. “I went out for a paper at five a.m.”

Bill stares for another moment then shakes his head. “Coffee?” he asks. “Tea?”

“Tea, if you’re making it,” Bond says, ever polite, so Bill focuses on making tea for Bond and Q, and ignores the strangeness that is his life and the people he’s decided to fill it with.

As he’s putting the kettle back on its stand, he glances to the left and sees the now-obvious gap between the toaster and the breadbin on Q’s cluttered work surface. Bill’s coffee maker will fit there perfectly.

He smiles.

/End


End file.
